A Different Christmas for the Lonely Stowaway
by Nerds United
Summary: This oneshot is in first person. Please read and review! Merry Christmas! And, yes, i do know that thanksgiving hasn't even come yet. I'm just weird. And look! I just fixed the grammar in the summary!


**A/N: this is a oneshot about christmas from the pov of a stowaway on jack's ship who gets found. it's kinda heartwarming... i think so anyway. well, at any rate, it's present tense (something new, i never have done that before) so i may have botched it. please tell me about any tense confusion that i missed in the proofread. please r&r! thanks!**

Christmas is different ever since I ran away. It used to be warm, and in more ways than one. I may have been young the last time I had Christmas indoors, but I still remember what it's like to have someone hold you inside, away from the cold. I remember what it's like to feel protected. I knew these pleasures, but now it's different. I'm older now—wiser too—but I wish sometimes that Christmas was still warm.

I've spent eleven Christmases on the streets of London, shivering in the cold night air, gettin' kicked by folks that don't know me well enough to have the right to kick me. If they had gotten to know me, then they could've kicked me, and it prolly would've been right and just in God's eyes too. I vow that this time'll be different. I may be cold still, but at least I ain't without hope, crawlin' through them filthy streets of London. No, now I'm cozy behind a barrel, feelin' the groaning, creaking wood of the ship below me. The lull of the sea'll soon put me to sleep, I know, but I hear the sailors singin' songs upstairs, and I've half a mind to join 'em—if I weren't a bloody stowaway that is. But I remind myself that I _am_ a stowaway and pull my knees closer to my chin, curled up all cat-like.

They're singin' one of my favorites, God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, and it gets me to cryin,' drawing in air in short little gulps like a wee little babe. Suddenly, the singin' stops, and I freeze my ragged breathing in my lungs, holdin' my breath as I hear footfalls on the stairs. I huddle up more, but I don't think it'll do any good. The sailor has seen me already, and though he's crusted a bit in salt and chapped by the weather, he's looks right handsome to me.

He bites his lip indecisively. "You're a stowaway ain't ya." He says it more like a statement than a question, and we both know that he knows, so I just nod my head real meek like, hopin' for mercy. He grabs me by the hand and leads me up the stairs, and I'm like a lost sheep on the outside. I know where he's taking me—to the Cap'n—and I know I oughta bolt, but I can't and he's got me in his grip pretty well anyhow.

He clears his throat, lookin' kinda embarrassed, like he wishes he didn't just have to escort a puny squirt like me to the Captain. "Cap'n," he says formally. "It's a stowaway." For a minute I consider bowin' my head and lookin' demure, but at the last second I change my mind, looking the captain straight in the eye, using my best look of challenge. He meets the look squarely, looking at me straight back with dark kohl-rimmed eyes, unwavering under my warning glare. I like that in a person; I can't help but let a half smile sneak onto my features. I take a short moment to examine him, never really having seen him before. Little trinkets are weaved into his choppy, dark, shoulder-length hair, and he has a small braided goatee and the end of his tanned, slightly angular face. He, in turn, is taking a moment to analyze _my_ face, and I fight the urge to squirm under such close scrutiny.

"I can 'old my own if need be," I say to him, addressing the Captain directly. "I'd be an asset to your lovely ship, I would. So, wot's your verdict?" He looks me up and down, checking out my body now—don't ask me why, I'm shaped like a stick—something not quite like a smirk on his face. I don't like that; I scowl murderously, trying to channel my violent thoughts to him. _Don't even think about it,_ I think, glaring. I think I'm holdin' out pretty well, keeping a serious and forbidding gaze up for some time… but then he takes something out of his pocket. He places it underneath my nose and waves it about a little bit, taunting me. It's this deep, rich brown color, and smells positively exotic. I feel my hand coming up to reach for the unknown victual, and I'm about to nick it from him when _poof_! It's gone from beneath my nose and is in his mouth as he chews it up, obviously relishing every moment of it, sucking up every drop of pleasure. My jaw drops a little bit at the injustice and cruelty of it all, but I say nothing.

He smiles at me, seeming very satisfied with himself. In a second, he has another piece in his hand. "Do you know what this is?" he asks me, sounding, of all things, seductive. I guess a man gets lonely at sea.

"It's food," I answer simply, reaching for it.

"No," he says patronizingly to me, smackin' my hand lightly. "Not just any food. This," he says, drawing out the moment (I think I might have to kill him), "is chocolate."

I sway on my feet, feeling a strange vertigo at that one word. _Chocolate. _"I used to have chocolate!" I blurt out, remembering. He raises his eyebrows. "I used to have chocolate," I murmur to myself, amazed that I had forgotten. "Grandmum would bring down the box of chocolates every Christmas, and we'd each have one after supper!" I exclaim, excited. But then I remember what I did. "That's how things _were_. They're different now. I'm a street urchin—worse! A stowaway. You didn't take it out to give me chocolate. You just took it out to taunt me, because I'm poor."

He looks morally affronted. "I do not taunt the poor! I _am_ the poor, love! It wouldn't do to taunt myself," he tells me.

I smile bitterly. "_You? _Poor?" I scoff. "Have you seen us beggin' at Cheapside? If you've got the money to buy chocolates, then you are far from poor."

"Buy? Who said anything about buying?" he asks me, a roguish glint in his eye.

At this I smile; I'd nicked enough in my days back at Cheapside. Them toffs wouldn't notice one missin' coin I always figured. It's like givin' to a charity, only more direct like.

"Well then, that settles it. This ain't a merchant ship? You folks must be pirates. I'd wondered where the wigs were," I say, grinning cheekily.

Now he smiles. "Why don't you join us at the fire, hmm?"

This confuses me. After all, this was generally the part where the stowaway gets thrown overboard to become shark food. "You're not gonna throw me overboard?"

He looks offended again, shocked. "Now, why would I do that to a fellow Cheapside beggar?" he asks me, smiling. "Join us here at the fire for a moment and then you can get back to wotever it is you stowaways do."

Suddenly, I feel shy. "Okay."

This Christmas is different. This Christmas is warm, and in more ways than one.

**a/n: opinions? flames? it is cold in here, ya know.**


End file.
